


Simply Love You

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angelo's Restaurant (Sherlock), Declaration of Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Jealous John Watson, M/M, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, matchmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:29:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28541820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: How does a consulting detective learn to woo his doctor? He goes to a love detective, of course!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 66





	Simply Love You

Sherlock Holmes. 

A name and face not unknown to me. Who could be unaware of a man so famous for his cunning detective skills or, if sensational tabloids are to be believed, criminal acts he, himself, has committed?

Yet, that cocky, confident man in the papers is not the man sitting across from me. Oh, he cloaks himself in an imperious facade, and he does a splendid job of it; I will give him that. To an observant eye, though, there is an underpinning of vulnerability. Of the sexual nature. I am not a gambling man, but if I were, I would bet everything I have that no one, man or woman, has tasted this man’s flesh. Such a pity. His flesh was meant to be tasted. Often and with great abandon.

Who am I, you ask? Daring to presume so much about a man who obviously values his privacy? I am Giorgio Amici, servant to those who seek help navigating the oft bewildering maze of courtship. Some would call me a matchmaker, but that is far too simplistic a label. It takes an undefinable talent (I say, most humbly, that I possess this talent in abundance) to discern the needs of a client. Needs of which the client themself may be wholly unaware. Or unwilling to admit.

You would have been as taken aback as I, seeing Mr. Holmes walk through the door. As I have said, I know nothing of him personally, but from what I _have_ seen—his superior intellect, his magnetic physical appeal—I find it incomprehensible he would have any difficulties securing a companion, romantic or otherwise. But, appearances can be deceiving, can they not? And I must say, I relish the challenge of introducing Mr. Holmes to a world with which he has professed to be unacquainted.

(Oh, who am I kidding? I relish spending time alone with that delicious hunk of a man! It will take great willpower to not cross the line of professional propriety, I daresay.)

“Is something not to your liking, Mr. Holmes?” I ask, as his pen hesitates over the contract. “I assure you it is a standard contract designed to protect each of us in the great unlikelihood anything should go awry.”

With an edge of impatience, he says, “Yes. Yes, I know.” But the pen moves no closer to the paper.

I wait, giving him time to think. (And giving me time to swoon over that thick, rich hair. Unprofessional, I know—tell someone who cares.) To many of us, dating is as natural as breathing; yet to others, it’s not a matter to be undertaken lightly. And worse yet, to the very few, to embark on a romantic journey is antithetical to everything they have ever believed, as if it were a life principle to not “get involved.” Since Mr. Holmes is here, it appears the last is not the case. Unless that is why he hesitates…

In a sudden spurt of determination, he jabs pen to paper and signs the document.

“Well, done,” I say, muffling an exuberant cry of victory, debating whether I am more delighted that Mr. Holmes will pursue his object of desire (I am already jealous of that most fortunate person), or that I am the one who will have the immense pleasure of helping him learn how. I think we know the answer to that question.

~~**~~

“Hello-o-o?” I sing out, seeing no need to knock on the door—it’s already open. I cringe at the clutter I see. Oh, my. Mr. Holmes’ flat could use a strong hand. Perhaps I should refer him to—

“Can I help you?” A man walks into view; he looks vaguely familiar, but I cannot place him. A frown furrows on his face as he glances, in what I presume to be an attempt at discretion, at the gift-wrapped box in my hand. “Do you have an appointment?”

The man is diminutive in height, sturdy but not stocky, and he dresses in a traditional manner without all the fuss and flamboyance that so many go for these days. Like me. In his eyes are a keen intellect and…let me put my finger on it...steadfastness. Yes, steadfastness is what I see in him.

“Good evening,” I say, holding out a hand in greeting, my smile saying I couldn’t be more pleased to meet him. “Giorgio Amici, here to collect Sherlock.” ~~~~

Instead of reaching out to shake my hand, the man crosses his arms in the manner of a stern father. What an odd response. Is he a friend? Flatmate? Whoever he is, he’s either a rude little snip of a man or is quite unsettled by the prospect of Sherlock having a beau…oh! Is that it? Can it be that he’s jealous? Intriguing.

“Do you mind if I come in while I wait for Sherlock? It _is_ a bit drafty out here…” I say.

And, as if he remembered that he does, indeed, have manners, the man holds out his hand to shake mine and says, “Of course. So sorry. Dr. John Watson, Sherlock’s, uh, flatmate. He knows you’re coming? He didn’t say anything about, a, uh...,” he looks again at the box. Its presence seems to fluster him.

“A date. We made arrangements days ago. So, how long have you and Sherlock been flatmates?” I ask conversationally, as if trying to fill an awkward void between strangers. You have likely guessed that I am prying, attempting to glean the nature of the relationship between Sherlock and this man that Sherlock didn’t mention. Something tells me there’s a significance there—both in the fact of Dr. Watson himself and in Sherlock not mentioning him. ~~~~

“Mmm, a year or two?” Dr. Watson picks up a newspaper from a chair and gestures for me to sit _._ “So, where’re you off to, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asks with studied breeziness, the stark contrast to his glower moments ago a tell in and of itself. He looks again at the box in my hand. Again? Really? It’s much larger than a ring (or condom!) box, so I haven’t a clue why he’s so concerned.

“No, I don’t mind you asking; we’re dining at a little place called Angelo’s. A friend of mine recommended it.” I note a flicker of unease in Dr. Watson’s eyes. “Ah, I see you’re familiar with Angelo’s. What are your thoughts? It’s never imprudent to get more than one opinion.” 

Dr. Watson nods a rather tight nod and sits down in the chair opposite me. “It’s all right, I guess. If you go in for that sort of thing.”

My interest is piqued at his strong reaction; he clearly has an emotional connection to the restaurant. I mean to inquire further—discretely, of course—but Mr. Holmes bursts into the room, and my heart flutters at his elegant beauty.

“Sherlock,” I say, rising as he practically runs my way, though his speed is not about haste to get to me. Yes, his long legs move him quickly, but he rushes past Dr. Watson, averting his eyes as though trying to avoid Dr. Watson’s scrutiny.

Sherlock reaches me, and I hold my gift out to him. “I brought you a trifle to let you know how very much I look forward to our evening.”

“Thank you?” (What, does no one in this household ever receive gifts?) He takes the box tentatively, but when he opens it, his eyes crinkle, showing me what an unexpectedly delightful, and accurate, choice of gift I have brought. “A Maître Choux éclair. How…?”

“I make it a point to know as much as I can about…” It is on the tip of my tongue to say “my clients,” but I catch myself. “…any new beau.”

Sherlock resets the lid on the box, and I take it from him.

“Dr. Watson, would you be so kind as to put that in your ice box? I do not wish to spoil Sherlock’s dinner. Besides, he might prefer a different dessert tonight,” I say, leaning into the suggestiveness.

Oh, if looks could kill.

Thankfully, Dr. Watson takes the box without causing me harm, and when he peeks inside the box on the way to the kitchen, I hear him mutter, “I didn’t think he liked chocolate.” From where I stand, he appears to chuck the box into the fridge. I flinch. No doubt the delicacy is now in ruins, but I return my attention to my client.

“It did take me an immense amount of time to suss out exactly the right thing to tempt you, and I deserve something sweet in return for my troubles,” I tell Sherlock with a subtle pout. And I tilt my cheek up for a kiss.

He leans down— _good boy—_ and as he nears my cheek, I turn so that our mouths meet. The oldest trick in the book, I know, but tried and true. Sherlock freezes, seemingly unsure of what he should do next, but before he has time to bolt, he relaxes. Not significantly, but enough that I do not feel I’m kissing a marble statue.

I press my lips to his, feeling faintly remorseful because I generally find it ill-advised to move quickly with someone so skittish, but the man is in desperate need of loosening up, and if I don’t gain footing immediately, all the effort we are making will be for naught. So, I kiss him, my intent to loosen his inhibitions. But instead, I am at the mercy of his allure. My lips are afire as they taste the sweetness of his mouth, feel the pillowy softness of his lips, their warmth. _Keep your guard up, Giorgio!_ It is not often that a client tempts me to such a degree, and I sternly admonish myself to maintain my professionalism.

With great effort, I tear myself away. And though it has cost me dearly, I see my strategy has had the desired effect; my client’s demeanor has softened. A pink tint blossoms across his pale skin, and his lips are rouged and glossy from our kiss. He is a vision unlike any other, and my mouth parts in silent reverence. Am I breathing?

“Aren’t you going to be late for your dinner reservations?” Dr. Watson looms nearby, and the steel in his voice tells me that I have outstayed my welcome. Not that I believe there _has_ been any welcome from Dr. Watson’s point of view.

And if I didn’t know it before, I am now quite certain that I should treat our Mr. Holmes with great care. I enjoy my life—and I employ the word “life” in the most literal sense—too much to toy unnecessarily with his heart.

Or should I say, Dr. Watson’s heart?

~~**~~

I can’t resist a curious glance up when Sherlock and I step outside. As I suspected, Dr. Watson peers down at us through drawn curtains, making no move to conceal he’s doing so. And as I climb into the cab, Sherlock has already given the cabbie our destination and has tucked himself onto the far side of the seat, creating as much space between us as possible.

I sit back as the vehicle chugs into the night, giving him time to settle. Sherlock faces out the window, as much, I imagine, to shut me out as to reflect on what happened in the flat. And as important as it is for him to reflect on and digest the unexpected intimacy of our kiss, I have a limited time with him and must get to work.

First, I must look up this Watson fellow. I cannot place his face, and it is driving me slightly mad. I enter his name into my phone’s search engine, and the screen floods with results.

Mio Dio.

Every entry I find, save a small handful, situates him next to Sherlock, whether in an image or in an article. How in the world did I not notice?! He’s practically inescapable. The only defense I have for being so unobservant is that as handsome as Dr. Watson is, Sherlock’s ethereal beauty draws attention away from everything around him.

As I study the pictures, I notice something else that would be undeniable to any observant eye. ~~~~

“How long has Dr. Watson been in love with you?” I ask quietly. This cannot have escaped the notice of the world’s most observant man. And even if it has, he needs to know.

Sherlock appraises me in the muted light of passing streetlamps, and I openly return his gaze, hoping he can see that he can trust me. He studies me for a good thirty seconds before he turns away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says in that baritone that must have, in his lifetime, caused a thousand sets of knees to go weak. Including Dr. Watson’s. Including mine.

“I study human behavior, Sherlock, with the same intensity that you study a crime scene, and I can say, with absolute confidence, that Dr. Watson cares deeply about you. And not strictly in a platonic sense. I raise the matter now because I fear that though your desire is to develop dating techniques, it would not benefit you to tarry long before letting Dr. Watson know how you feel. Witnessing you with a date seems to bring out the protector in him to an alarming degree.” And with a nervous chuckle, I add, “I daresay, I felt fortunate to leave your flat alive.”

Sherlock is quiet, his gloved fingers bouncing on his knee. The occasional faint tap from the toe of his shoe hitting the floorboard. The restaurant comes in to view and, through the partition, I instruct the cabbie to take a circuitous route. It would be unwise to interrupt Sherlock’s train of thought at so crucial a moment.

Scooting close to Sherlock and reaching for his hand, I remove his glove; our interview indicated that lack of familiarity and ease with touch brings any thought of courtship to a grinding halt. His hand is warm and smooth, the immensity of it dwarfing my own. I twine our fingers together. His, long and elegant, send a shiver through me. And for the hundredth time tonight, I wish I were his date, not a pretender. But I will make the sacrifice, standing in for his heart’s desire (now firmly established as _Dr. Watson,_ of all people!).

“You don’t seem a man who asks easily for help,” I say. “And yet you sought my services. I will do everything in my power to help you to feel more at ease and more assured than you now do. But to accomplish this, I have one ask, and one ask only of you.”

I wait until I have his full attention. And when he looks at me, his expression implacable, I say, “I want you to make believe I’m John.” No, best narrow that down. “I want you to react to whatever I do as if it were John who is on this date with you.”

Sherlock pauses, not unlike when I kissed him and believed he would cut and run for it. I hold my breath. But when he moves, it is only to cross his legs; he does not pull his hand from mine.

“I will defer to your expertise,” he says, and I feel a perceptible shift in the relationship between our hands; instead of passively allowing me to hold his hand, he has taken ahold of mine in a steady grip, as if there were no place else he would prefer his hand to be.

~~**~~

“Where’s John? He’s following soon, is he?”

The swarthy restauranteur’s smile is wide and, as Angelo claps Sherlock on the shoulder, he propels him toward the table at the front window. “No worries, I always save the best seat in the house for you.”

“Haven’t you seating elsewhere, Angelo?” Sherlock’s face clouds over, and he scans the room, his gaze landing on a table near the back of the room. “Ahh, there’s an empty table— And now there’s not.”

“You’ll be fine, just fine, right here. Sit,” Angelo says, eyeing me curiously and blowing out the flickering candle. “John will forgive you. Your spat will blow over, poof, like it never happened. You’ll see.”

“We didn’t have… We don’t… Never mind. This is Giorgio.”

I slide down the bench, my back to the window, and pat the space beside me, “Love?”

Fortifying himself with a deep breathe, Sherlock deposits his delectably plump bottom next to me. Tsk tsk tsk, not close enough. I scooch so that our thighs touch.

“Do we have to sit so close together?” he hisses, breaking, in record speed, his avowal to follow my lead.

An understandable response, I suppose, for one so averse to human touch (at least the living type!), but we simply must get to work.

“If I were John, would you object?” I ask. “If I were John, would you object to _this_?” I snake a middle finger along the inside of his thigh, and I’m uncertain whether the shiver I feel is his or mine.

“You said,” I whisper close to his ear, “that you would submit to my expertise. For tonight, I am John. And if all goes well, the next time you are here at Angelo’s, there will be no need to pretend; it will be your John’s thigh touching you. John’s hand, touching you. Here.”

This time, there is no doubting the origin of the shiver: it is Sherlock’s. His thighs briefly clench my hand where it has dipped further into the sanctum between them, and then my hand is (oh so rudely!) snatched from the warmth and planted firmly atop my leg.

Humph. I will permit him the momentary retreat. Even a drowning man, in his struggles, sometimes catches a gasp of air.

Sherlock throws his arm up and cocks a hand, summoning a passing server. “We ordered wine. It should be here by now.”

 _Good lord, he looks beautiful when he’s flustered._ His beauty is otherworldly when he scowls, but with flushed cheeks and with lips parted as if in invitation, well… I’m thinking thoughts that could not be spoken aloud in public.

“Please, hurry with the alcohol,” I call desperately to the server’s back. A lubricant can’t make me any more aroused than I already am, but it may help me relax and get back to work. The work of uniting Sherlock with his intended lover. His intended lover who is not me. _Quit pouting, Giorgio!_

Our wine soon arrives, and we settle into the business of romance, the next hours showing me what an exceptional pupil I have under my tutelage. Whether due to a steady flow of wine or to the commitment to my expertise, Sherlock not only warms to my touch and my endearments but quickly learns to mirror them. And occasionally take the lead. I have to say, he is a most charming companion; I have not been quite so titillated, nor have I giggled so much, in quite some time.

“You are an absolute delight, Sherlock! No wonder Dr. Watson loves you.”

Damn it. I ruined our fun; the gaiety comes to a screeching halt. Sherlock withdraws his hands from mine and, picking up a fork and knife, plays at cutting up the food on his plate that has long grown cold.

“You said that earlier, too, that John loves me,” he says to the congealed chicken parm. “How can you be so sure? How do I know you aren’t saying that because I’ve paid you to?”

My heart aches. This magnificent specimen should never, _ever_ doubt that he is not everything that someone as accomplished as Dr. Watson would desire and value.

I grab my phone from the table and revive my internet search for Dr. Watson. Practically shoving the phone into Sherlock’s face, I show him a picture. It’s a zoomed on photograph of Dr. Watson’s enraptured face. Enraptured because he’s gazing at Sherlock.

“This, _this_ is how I know, Sherlock. This is the look of a man absolutely besotted—"

“He’s here,” Sherlock interrupts me, his entire being suddenly alert to a presence of which I am wholly unaware.

“He, who?” I ask, my hand freezing mid-squeeze on his knee as my eyes sweep the room now empty of everyone but servers.

“John.”

“I don’t see him.”

“He’s in the cab. Down the block.”

“How do you know?” Illogically, I whisper, as if someone down the block could hear me. I turn to look, but Sherlock’s hand whips out to stop me. “Does he always follow you like this?” Why am I still whispering?!

“No. If he did, I’d know. Besides, It’s quite rare that we’re not together.”

Doy. Of course.

Sherlock whisks out his phone, and I am close enough to see the message he texts: **Care to join us? SH**

I take my own phone out and reverse the camera, scanning the scene behind me. (Detective Amici has a nice ring to it! Giorgio Amici, Love Detective.) In the cab about fifty feet away, only one head is visible, presumably the cabbie’s. There’s no one on the street.

Sherlock’s phone pings. **_Three’s a crowd. Besides, at the Pig’s Snout having a few rounds with some mates. I’ve missed this. Been cooped up at the flat too much._**

Sherlock smirks, and he thumbs buttons on his phone as if he’s playing a fierce video game and his phone will blow up if he doesn’t win. **The Pig’s Snout burned down three months ago.**

“Watch for the light in the cab when I send my text,” Sherlock tells me. “For the cabbie to receive a text at the exact moment I send one to John is a near statistical impossibility.” **You’ll take a chill sitting in the damp. The motor is off and therefore the heater. Do think, John. SH**

He hits Send and, immediately, the light from a mobile phone flares within the dimmed cab.

No more than a few seconds later, Sherlock’s phone pings. **_Meant the Ram’s Head. Battery about to die. Cheers._**

Sherlock slips his phone into his pocket. “Five, four, three, two, one. And… The cab is leaving.” Even if he won’t, I turn around to look. The cab is driving away.

“That was amazing! _You_ are amazing.” My mouth hangs open with, well, amazement.

“So John tells me.”

I study Sherlock, the way the whole of him has somehow become _less_ than he was moments ago. “You miss him, don’t you.” I want to take Sherlock’s hand, to console him, but I think that even with our pact, it would no longer be welcome.

“Don’t be ridiculous. How can I miss someone I see every day?” Sherlock sips the last of his wine and reaches for his outerwear. “Best be off, shall we?”

I marvel at him. This time not at his cunning, but that after living with Dr. Watson for “a year or two” (no doubt they each know _exactly_ how long they’ve shared the flat), one evening apart from each other, and Sherlock misses him.

My friends often rib me about my romantic whimsy, about my ability to diagnose undying love in the unlikeliest pairings. But I do not think it an overstatement to say that with Sherlock and Dr. Watson, I believe I have encountered the unicorn of romance. Two men desperately in love. So comfortable with each other, so attuned to each other that they don’t know where one of them ends and the other one begins. Yet they are so inured to their daily—and I mean _daily_ —routine that they’re unable to break with it long enough to take the step that will elevate their relationship to the next level. To the one that will make each of them happier than they would have thought possible.

In the dark cab on our way back to Baker Street, I make one last entreaty of my client. For his own sake.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?”

“I said I had only one ask of you, but I find I must make one more. It is purely from a professional—”

“What is it?”

He has little time for me; his thoughts are with Dr. Watson.

“Tell Dr. Watson, tonight, that you love him.”

The silence that follows is heavy. But it does not last long; we have arrived at the flat, a shadow in the window above retreating as we exit the vehicle. ~~~~

~~**~~

By now, dear reader, you are aware I am not so reserved that I can barely contain myself, atwitter with anticipation that two men so frightened of revealing hidden longing will declare their mutual love right before my eyes. In but moments! How do I know, you ask? It would be unseemly of me to once again boast of my unnatural ability to read the human condition, so I will humbly, without a hint of arrogance (well, perhaps a _smidge_ ), say simply, “Trust me. I know.”

When Sherlock and I step into the flat, Dr. Watson eyes me warily, his lips a thin line—their default setting, it seems— and I paste a practiced smile onto my face, resisting the almost unresistable urge to snatch Sherlock’s hand and whisk him away to an exotic hideaway. Save him from this surly little man and show him what _real_ love is.

Instead, I ask, “Toilet?” A ruse that will allow me to remain in the flat for a time.

And heading in the direction to which Dr. Watson points, I hear him ask Sherlock, “How was…” Pained sounds, faint as they are, escape him as he grapples for a word. But for as long as his silence lasts, all he manages to produce is, “…it?” Ahh, how much he says in so little.

When Sherlock does not respond, I half-turn and sneak a glance. Sherlock’s gaze is fixed on a spot on the ceiling; the ease with which he communicated with me such a short time ago has not transferred to Dr. Watson. In fact, if possible, he appears more emotionally stilted than I have at any moment seen him. And Dr. Watson’s gaze hovers somewhere to the left of Sherlock, his jaw clenched so tightly, I fear it may break.

Oh, dear. I have made a bungling mess of it. It is my mission to untangle the miscommunications between them, not mire them deeper in a haze of misunderstanding.

Responding in Sherlock’s stead to Dr. Watson’s question, I say, “Enchanting. It was an enchanting evening, indeed. That would be what Sherlock would say.” As I speak, I sift quickly through a list of romantic tropes, those prompts that bring a reluctant lover’s feelings to the fore. I must get Sherlock and Dr. Watson moving in the right direction.

I flip mentally through a file… _Not that one. No, that’s not it. No, no…ahh, I have it!_

“It is most uncouth for me to say…” I pause dramatically. “…but for myself, I found the evening a bit of a bore. Present company excluded, of course.” I add the contradiction with such determined insincerity as to fail to fool even the most unintelligent among us. And Dr. Watson is far from unintelligent.

“Bored, eh?” Dr. Watson takes my bait and, regrettably, as an unintended consequence, I once again find myself in his direct line of sight, my forehead a bullseye in the target of a crack shot.

A droplet of sweat trickles down the side of my brow. Reaching for my kerchief, I say, “What I meant to say, was I—"

“If Sherlock Holmes is anything, he is _not_ boring. He is the most exciting, the most amazing…” As Dr. Watson interrupts me, it soon becomes clear that he is less intent on berating me than he is in taking this opportunity to wax on (and on…ahem, and on) about the wonders of the man with whom he is so painfully in love.

Sherlock’s face is shyly radiant as he listens to Dr. Watson’s impassioned defense of my slight. It is as if he has never heard himself described in such glowing terms and does not know what to do with the intensity of the emotions they bring to the surface.

And something in me snaps. It is not rational, I know. But I envision them continuing their charade, this dance of theirs that keeps them going ‘round and ‘round in circles and never brings them closer. I must do something about it. Now.

“Go on, tell him, Sherlock.” The urgency in my voice cuts through Sherlock’s stupor, and he looks somewhere down at Dr. Watson’s toes.

“Tell me what, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s cheeks bloom with color. He clears his throat. And agonizingly (at least it’s agonizing for _me_!), he takes a deep breathe before saying, “John, I…”

My blood thrums through my veins; I live for this, the thrill of romance! Even if it is not mine. I clasp my hands together, holding myself still as I listen for the three little words that will change their lives forever.

“John, I … there’s something I want to tell you. Something I’ve meant to say, always.”

Here it comes! It gets no better than this.

I am certain that at this moment Dr. Watson no longer remembers I am in the room; the words he has waited so long to hear are about to be uttered with the certitude that only the truly love-struck can bring forth. “ _John, I love you.”_ Yes, that is exactly what Sherlock is about to say.

“John,” Sherlock says, pausing. Again. Sliding a dry tongue along his full lower lip.

 _Here it comes here it comes here it comes…_!! My heart bounces in excitement.

“John, do you remember the Jordan case?”

  
_WHAT?! Jordan? No, no, no! Who is Jordan, and what has he got to do with being in love with Dr. Watson?_

Dr. Watson’s brow furrows, for he is as confused as I. “The chap who electrocuted himself in the jacuzzi? You said the case was closed, that it was accidental.”

 _And what in the holy hell does that have to do with telling Dr. Watson that you love him?! Tell him you love him!_ I scream silently at Sherlock, all composure lost.

“And what do you mean by you always meant to tell me? The case was only a month ago.” And as Dr. Watson recognizes Sherlock’s distress, a wisp of air leaves him, the depth of his care for Sherlock achingly evident.

For the first time since we arrived at the flat, Sherlock looks at me. I see something in those piercing blue eyes that I have not seen there before, for if I am not mistaken, I see fear.

 _Just tell him you love him,_ I mouth.

Sherlock squints. _What?_

_Say ‘I love you.’_

_What?_

“For heaven’s sakes,” I erupt, exasperated. “‘I love you.’ Does it really have to be this hard?”

“You what?!” It is Dr. Watson’s turn to erupt, letting rise the emotion that has boiled just below the surface since the first time he laid eyes on me. “One date?” He jabs a finger at me. No, not _that_ one, though as emphatically as the finger is thrust, it might as well be. “One date, and you’re in love with him. Bit fast, isn’t it?”

 _And you killed a man for him after knowing him only one day. What’s that about, eh? Flatmate etiquette?_ I throw back at him. For god’s sake, these two men are emotionally constipated twats.

“Go on, Sherlock, tell him. Tell. Him. Or I swear it will be me who does. And I can promise you, it will _not_ be the way you will want to remember it happening.” I struggle to regain my composure. Envisioning my reputation, my business, going down in flames once it is known I lost my temper with a client.

Enunciating his words to within an inch of their death, Sherlock grinds out, “If you will allow me, I _am_ telling him.”

“Will someone tell _me_ what’s going on? Does this…this…”

“Escort,” I helpfully supply. _Hmph. Let’s see how you take that one._

“Oh, this keeps getting—"

“John—" Sherlock tries to get Dr. Watson’s attention.

“—better. Does he know something about—"

“John—”

“—about the jacuzzi death that I don’t? Because, Sherlock, if you—"

“JOHN.”

In the space of an instant, the room goes silent, the tension between its occupants the loudest thing in it. Sherlock eyes Dr. Watson and me, as if a scolding parent willing the children to behave.

“Now. May I proceed?” Sherlock shoves his still-gloved hands into the depths of his coat pockets and faces Dr. Watson.

_Oh, no, you don’t. You tuck your hands away, and it’s that much harder to touch your Dr. Watson._

I step behind Sherlock and reach tippy-toe over his shoulders to collect his coat, around each side to collect his gloves. And as I do, he makes no move to deter me, for his entire focus is on Dr. Watson, telling him, in hushed tones, the story of the Jordan case. Telling Dr. Watson that Marcus Jordan did not accidentally drown in the jacuzzi, that he was not murdered. No, Marcus Jordan died by pure will, stilling his own beating heart because he could no longer endure being alone, unable to tell the man he loved…

_Oh._

My eyes grow moist as I listen to the story and realize that, yes, Sherlock _is_ telling Dr. Watson he loves him. And judging by Dr. Watson’s softened demeanor, the fingers he weaves through Sherlock’s, that he, too, understands. Replying with a language each of us understands, an urgent yet gentle kiss. A nuzzled cheek.

I move toward the door, unheeded. The man who had so jealously guarded my client now leans full tilt into him, his body held firmly against Sherlock’s tall frame by encircling arms. And instead of a story of death and loss and longing, I now hear the whispered sighs and sounds of a love that no longer feels the need to stay hidden.

Quietly leaving the flat, I set aside the usual inclination to congratulate myself on a job well done. This outcome was not in the hands of Giorgio Amici; it was written in the stars when time began.

_Oh my, that ending is a bit too soppy even for me. Let me think of another one. Until then, wishing you love and happiness, my friend. And if you need the assistance of a certain love detective, here’s my card._

_Arrivederci!_

**Author's Note:**

> Simply Love You is a track from the Mcgear album by Mike McGear (Paul McCartney's brother).


End file.
